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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28930878">spilled secret</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/electronic_elevator/pseuds/electronic_elevator'>electronic_elevator</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>markiplier - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crying, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Omorashi, Other, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:55:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,285</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28930878</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/electronic_elevator/pseuds/electronic_elevator</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark wets himself, which you don’t think is a big deal, but it sends the Actor into a panic attack. You try your best to calm him down and make it clear to him that you are not like certain people from his past.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Actor Mark/Reader - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>spilled secret</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written September 2020. Warning for implied/allusion to past abuse (it’s small but I wanna keep y’all safe) and (similarly brief) unsympathetic Celine.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>An afternoon cuddle had turned, unintentionally but unsurprisingly, into an afternoon nap. You’d resurfaced a few minutes ago, and laid quietly beside him, still half-dozing, until he stirred. </p>
<p>Your sleepy smile went unreturned — the Actor’s first conscious thought was how terribly urgently he needed to pee. The Actor knew — knew, from a million past experiences — that he had no time to wait, and without any particular tact or an alibi for the distress in his tone, said, “I need to get up.” </p>
<p>His terror was warranted; just after speaking, he leaked, the hot spurt soaking a small patch on his underwear. He’d slept through any warning he might’ve gotten. The Actor had no time — he needed to <i>move,</i> so he grabbed you gently by the shoulders, rolling you off of him even as you, in confusion and concern, asked “What’s wrong?” </p>
<p>He barely processed that you’d spoken, let alone asked a question. You didn’t resist the movement, but the process of shifting constricted his bladder; he was now steadily dribbling piss, his pants getting wetter and wetter. He fought the urge to swear or snap at you — or cry. The Actor had avoided spilling this secret for so long, and one accidental nap was about to undo all his effort and stress. As soon as he could, he moved to to stand; if he didn’t hurry, he’d soak through to the couch, and he <i>couldn’t—</i> </p>
<p>The Actor dropped the thought; it was pushing him too close to panicking. As he stood, the unstoppable dribble briefly surged, and he suppressed a strangled whimper; between the extra piss and the change in position, the wet heat now streaked down to his thighs. There was no chance his pants still looked dry. You must <i>know,</i> and all he could feel was paralyzing fear. He couldn’t run if he’d wanted to, but there was no point — you could see everything except how badly his face was burning. You were watching him defile himself. It wouldn’t stop — the wet patch had grown rapidly, wetting his thighs and dripping down his calves, soaking into his socks; the patter of piss hitting the floor sounded so loud. <i>Undoubtably</i> you were disgusted — any second now you’d speak up to berate him for his inability to hold it like every other adult. He felt like he was falling; the terror and shame made him sick. He couldn’t stop himself from pissing or the maelstrom of emotions he was feeling, and as he spiraled he felt himself tearing up and knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep from crying, either. </p>
<p>After he stood, you’d begun to ask what was wrong again, but then you’d seen it. You weren’t disgusted — a little surprised, as this hadn’t happened before, but then concerned — he’d frozen still, and not reacted when you called his name. He was clearly incredibly upset — you’d never seen him like this; the poor thing was practically shaking. You jumped up and moved to his side, or as close as you could get without standing in his puddle. Softly, hoping to calm him, you tried talking to him again. “It’s okay, Mark; accidents happen, I know that.”</p>
<p>The Actor looked down — he couldn’t look at you. Your words sounded kind, but he couldn’t believe them. The tears that had filled his eyes spilled over when he did, rapidly replaced by others. He sniffled heavily, wishing it was easier to breathe. He wasn’t wetting anymore, but his pants were still dripping wet and the puddle below him was huge and undeniable even if you hadn’t watched the whole thing.</p>
<p>“…Mark, you’re really concerning me, can you please talk to me?” You reached for his arm, and ended up taking his hand; he clutched it like a lifeline. </p>
<p>He couldn’t calm down; his thoughts were an anxious spiral, and he just cried harder, wishing so badly to just believe your kind tone would stay and that you wouldn’t hate him for this. He had to try to answer you, but all that tumbled from his mouth were pleas. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, fuck, please, I didn’t mean it, I tried, I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>He was almost whimpering, and it tore at your heart. “It’s okay—” you tried to repeat, but he cut you off, too afraid to hear you. </p>
<p>“Please don’t be disgusted, please, I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up — I promise. I’ll— I’ll try harder,” he said, a hysteric edge to his voice as his tears became outright sobbing. “Please don’t leave me. We don’t— I can sleep in another room; I can— I don’t know, just please, please, I promise I didn’t mean to wet. I can’t help it.” As he’d rambled, he’d grabbed your hand even tighter, until it <i>hurt.</i> You tried interrupting him again, but you simply weren’t getting through — he was entirely too consumed with the echos of everyone in his past: his parents, using verbal and physical punishments to try to shame him out of his bedwetting; his friends, teasing him until he was near-tears when he couldn’t make it back to the house in time; and worst of all Celine, who (never one to mince words) had told him it was disgusting, and would outright avoid him for hours to days (depending on the circumstances) after it happened. </p>
<p>It was too loud in his head to listen to you, and part of him <i>needed</i> to try to explain, and as incoherent and pathetic as he felt his ramblings were they were the only explanation he could come up with in his panic. </p>
<p>You had tears in your own eyes — who’d hurt your love so badly that he reacted like this to an <i>accident?</i> As soon as you realized you weren’t getting through to him, you stepped unhesitantly into the puddle; Mark faltered, crying out a horrified “<i>No—!”</i> which you ignored completely, gathering him into your arms. </p>
<p>He couldn’t help but cling to you. He was getting his filth all over you, and that set off another cascade of tears, but no one had bothered to comfort him like this since he was small. Back then, it was okay that he sometimes had accidents, and was given a hug or a kiss and helped to clean up. Much sooner than he’d figured out how to avoid — and, failing that, hide — them, that turned to being yelled at or humiliated for it. How could he not hope this meant you really would be different from everyone before? It almost made him more afraid, though; he just held onto you, sobbing. </p>
<p>“Please don’t be mad,” he cried again.</p>
<p>“I’m not mad,” you tried to soothe. “I promise. It was just an accident; it’s alright. Shhhh, Mark; please calm down. It’s all alright; just take a few minutes. We can clean it up.” You were still so concerned… you’d only seen him this upset maybe once or twice. </p>
<p>“I”m sorry,” he sobbed, because it was the forefront of everything he was feeling: he was sorry for wetting himself, for having a complete meltdown over it, for how terrifyingly vulnerable and out of control he felt, for getting you wet, for all the past memories it had dredged up— “I’m so sorry.” </p>
<p>“Mark,” you said, firmly but with only love. “You don’t need to apologize. It was just an accident, and I need you to <i>please</i> try to calm down. Take a deep breath. For me?” </p>
<p>He tried, if only because he wasn’t able to do anything else. “There, that’s good. Like that, just focus on your breathing. We can talk after. It’s okay, and I’m right here. I’m just worried about you, my love. You can cry it out and I’ll still be here at the end.” Periodically, you’d coax him into taking another deep breath, and it took a few minutes, but eventually his sobs subsided, and he’d calmed down enough to voice, if shaky, a question. </p>
<p>He’d swallowed more apologies, first. (He was <i>so</i> humiliated.) “You’re really not disgusted? …Why?” The Actor knew, intellectually, that you weren’t… you were standing in his piss puddle, holding him despite his soaked state, and had only been patient while he recovered from… whatever that was. On a deeper level, though, he felt like he couldn’t believe you. The “why?” wasn’t truly “why aren’t you?” — it was “why was everyone else?” </p>
<p>“…I could never be disgusted with you, Mark. I love you,” you said. He met your gaze for the first time. His were still wet with tears and red from crying so much. You brushed his hair back gently with a hand, searching his eyes. You wanted to give him the answer he needed… and you wanted him to be able to believe you when you said it. </p>
<p>“I love you, too,” he mumbled back. Now that he was getting a grip on himself again, he was truly exhausted. (So much for the nap.) He’d already given away so much; he didn’t want to tell you any more… but he should. Another part of him wanted you to know, as an explanation for why he panicked or maybe just so you’d reiterate that you weren’t mad at him for it — the wetting, or the panicking. </p>
<p>He also thought <i>implying</i> just how long it had been an issue and letting you make the inference after that would be easier than outright admitting that this would probably not be the last time you saw him wet himself. So, though mumbling and still with the occasional hitch to his breath, he explained. “Everyone… everyone else was. I know I’m an adult, I know I should be able to control myself, but I just <i>can’t,</i> and— no one’s ever— been <i>nice</i> about it.” The Actor was surprised to find he had to fight off tears again, and surprised to feel your hand on his cheek, softly rubbing with a thumb to swipe the not-quite-dry tracks away. “I really can’t. I’ve tried <i>everything.</i> It’s not like I <i>want</i> this…” </p>
<p>The hurt in his voice broke your heart, and an undirected sort of rage brewed. You wanted to ask for names, but in all likelihood, they were long dead. “Mark, I’m so sorry people treated you that way… I know it’s not your fault. I’m not going to hold this against you. It’s okay.” </p>
<p>“…Thank you,” he mumbled. He lacked the words to express how much it meant to him, so a thank-you was going to have to do. “I need to go clean up,” he added. It was over-due — the piss was cooling on his legs, now, and even if you weren’t disgusted by him, he was still disgusted by himself. He still felt guilty about getting you dirty, too, and wanted you to be able to clean up as soon as possible. He gestured to the floor. “I’ll take care of this after; just… go take care of yourself, okay?” He’d like to say he’d come find you after that, but… he was still feeling miserable, and felt more like slinking away to process this debacle. </p>
<p>“…Okay, Mark. Are you sure? I can help,” you offered. You were well acquainted with his tendency to isolate himself — it was obvious he was still upset, and you were worried he’d pull himself into a dark place. He’d told you enough to make it clear this ran deep. </p>
<p>“<i>No,</i>” he swore, and disentangled himself from your arms. You would absolutely not be cleaning up his piss. He was capable, at least, of cleaning up after himself. </p>
<p>…He looked like a wreck, but a very determined wreck who absolutely would not be accepting help or more comfort at the moment. You were scheming, but you said, “Alright,” because you knew him well enough to know pushing back now wouldn’t help. </p>
<p>You were going to clean the puddle. Both of you stepped carefully out of it, trying your best to avoid tracking — Mark pulled his soaked socks off with a disgusted cringe, and you simply tried to leave all the drips in the area. Mark left quickly, allowing you to get the cleaning supplies. You got the piss sopped up then the floor disinfected, including where the two of you may have tracked away, and even checked to make sure he hadn’t leaked on the couch. (He hadn’t.) </p>
<p>You knew he, at least on the surface, wouldn’t be pleased, so you didn’t wait for him there. A half-hour or so passed with no sign of Mark — you certainly hadn’t hidden, so you presumed he wasn’t coming to look for you. </p>
<p>Mark hadn’t made himself hard to find, either. You tracked him down quickly. </p>
<p>Now the only thing wet was his hair, and he was wrapped in his favorite robe, standing in the bedroom and looking out the window, deep in thought and still precariously emotional. He’d of course discovered where you’d cleaned the puddle when he went to try to do it himself. It was embarrassing to know you had, sure, but it also meant a hell of a lot to him. It really seemed like you’d meant what you said — like you might be truly alright with his problem. He hadn’t come after you; he couldn’t stand being any more needy today. Part of him did want to think over everything alone, too. …And as for the reason why he’d remained somewhere so predictable as the bedroom, he’d privately hoped <i>you’d</i> come after <i>him.</i> And… you had. </p>
<p>The absolute last thing — well. maybe the third-to-last thing — he wanted to do today was cry <i>again,</i> but he almost did as you greeted him softly and hugged him again. He returned the hug with an unsteady but wholeheartedly sincere, “I love you.”</p>
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